


Scars and Nightmares

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Barduil [19]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Canon Typical Violence, Half-elven!Bard, Hurt/Comfort, I have like three other fics that I'm supposed to be writing, Immortal!Bard, Reference to the 'canonical' death of a character, Thranduil's Scars, am I writing them?, boys being soft, dragonfire, no because I wrote this instead!!!, the Quest to Slay a Dragon and Revive a Ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24198859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: In which Thranduil finds no peace in his dreamsOrIn which Bard brings him the peace he's searching for
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: Barduil [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/267661
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	Scars and Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Don't Forget Your Roots, you don't need to read that to understand this one. just know that Bard's actually half-elven, he is the grandson of Elured (Elrond's uncle).

Bard dies in his dreams every night. It’s been that way since he realized he was falling for the man, of course, he didn’t know the man was half-elven and he thinks, if he had known, maybe he wouldn’t be so lost in his dreams now. Before, he dreamed of Bard getting old and wrinkly and passing in his sleep. Before, he would dream of sickness coming and claiming him and there was nothing he could do. Now, his dreams have taken on a life of their own.

_The fire, when it comes, is sudden, unexpected. They had thought that all of the serpents were accounted for, already on the field, but there was one overlooked. Morgost the Ever Burning, the spawn of Ancalagon the Black._

_The heat of the flames is overwhelming, his skin blisters where his metal armour touches his bare skin and he worries he’ll roast alive within it, the fire never touching him. Still, he fights on, biting down on the screams that want to tear from his lips, at the pain that sears through him from his hands, where he’s certain he carries brands that match exactly to the hilts of his swords._ You can scream later, Thranduil. _He promises himself, pushing the pain as far back into his mind as he can, drawing on all that Melian taught him in those brief, peaceful years in Doriath._

_He turns away from the dragon, intent on fighting, his attention drawn to orcs caught in the corner of his eyes, and for long moments he doesn’t think about the dragon again, until he hears a familiar voice screaming._

_“Lalaithiel!” he exclaims, wrench his sword through an orc’s throat before turning, watching his beloved wife engulfed in flames. He’s screaming her name, anger and desperation overwhelming him as he tries to fight to her side, but there are enemies all around him and for too long, he loses sight of her. Then he hears another scream and his heart clenches so painfully in his chest._ Not him. Not both of them. Eru, please not both of them! _“Bard!” When he finally breaks through the enemies, he finds both of his spouses collapsed in a burning heap, their voices forever silenced. He_ screams. _Feels the earth buckling beneath his feet as he summons all of the power owed to him._

_“The Song of Arda still sings in your blood, Thranduil, as it sings in all elves. You just need to know how to claim it.” Melian’s voice whispers in his ear, memories of so, so long ago. A different age, a different time, a different place._

_He snatches up a spear, cast aside long ago with its owner. His eyes are shining stars as he stares above him, tracking Morgost’s great form. He spots his chance and with all of his rage and all of his grief and all of his power, he throws the spear. He_ laughs _as it pierces Morgost’s chest and the dragon falls from the sky, screeching, flame spilling from its mouth like lava. The laugh that is pulled from him isn’t a happy sound, it’s manic and full of anguish and he finds that once he starts, he cannot stop. He’s still laughing, even when the fire reaches him, then his laughter turns to screams and his world turns to fire._

_“Thranduil!” someone is calling his name, but through his own screams he almost misses it. The pain is so intense, he can barely breathe around it and even when he does, he loses the air to screaming. “Thranduil, wake up!”_

He’s still screaming, but when he blinks, he’s no longer on the battlefield, instead, he’s staring up at… a familiar ceiling. He stops screaming, sucks in a panicked breath and, to his own horror, bursts immediately into tears.

“It’s alright, meleth. It’s alright, I’m here. I’ve got you.” Bard’s voice whispers in his ears and he forces himself to breathe, even through his tears.

Distantly, he hears the sound of a door closing, but he doesn’t pay it any heed as he curls himself around his husband and clings so desperately to him, babbling at him, his words so thick with sobs as to be incoherent even to his own ears. But he doesn’t care. He babbles and he sobs and he clings and he listens to his husband promising him sweet nothings and eventually, the panic eases. Eventually, the dream, the nightmare, finally relinquishes its hold on him and he can breathe without feeling like he’s drowning in fear.

“I’ve got you.” Bard promises and Thranduil lets himself breathe. “Do you want to talk about it?” his husband asks when he’s no longer lost in lingering fear and panic.

“You died.” Thranduil answers, the words torn from his chest. “With Lalaithiel, in the fire.”

“Oh, love.” Bard whispers, pressing gentle kisses to his face. “I’m sorry these nightmares are plaguing you.”

“It’s… fine. They’re _just_ nightmares. I’ve survived worse.” Thranduil mutters, turning his face away, he knows his scar is visible, can feel the magic slowly wrapping itself back up around him, dulling the pain that is always lurking beneath the magics, ready and willing to burn him alive if he lets it. Bard shouldn’t have to look at such a disgusting sight, shouldn’t have to touch it.

“Hey.” Bard murmurs, carefully guiding his face back to look at him, even though Thranduil winces when Bard’s eyes meet his good one. “You have these nightmares _because_ you survived. It doesn’t matter how bad the event was, it could be the most painful thing in the world, as it was for you, and your nightmares would _still_ find someway to make it _worse._ There is nothing to be ashamed of, Thranduil.” His husband promises, pressing a kiss to the scarred skin on his cheek. “Scars mean that you survived whatever put them there.”

“I know.” Thranduil answers, sighing heavily and relaxing into Bard’s hold. “No more dragons. For either of us.”

“Gods, I hope they’re all fucking dead.” Bard mutters, his voice shaking. “I dream of Dale burning, Laketown, too, sometimes. Our kids trapped in the flames. I missed the shot.”

“You didn’t.” Thranduil assures, resting his face against Bard’s chest. “You didn’t miss. You slew Smaug and saved us all.”

“You slew Morgost and saved us all, too.” Bard says, Thranduil snorts, but his husband is already shaking his head. “Can you imagine if Morgost was still around today? He was _worse_ than Smaug.”

“You know, they didn’t sing my accolades after the battle. I slew a dragon, but never have I been called Dragonslayer.” Thranduil points out, sounding contemplative. “I guess they were so worried I’d let the fire claim me, if they reminded me of the fact that I could have saved her, if I’d just acted sooner.”

“You can’t know that for certain.” Bard answers, running his fingers through Thranduil’s hair. “But you are a Dragonslayer, as I am. There are probably those within this very hall, who do not call you that to your face, but they think it, every time they stand before you. Whenever you march off to war, they are there at your back, thinking it. When you go down to the healing halls and give your time and your skills there, they lie in those beds, thinking it. You are a Dragonslayer and the people who were there with you, when you slew that dragon, are probably still thankful, even to this day.”

“How-“

“Because I do not know if you let yourself hear it, but your people sing your praises. They call you the greatest king they have ever had. If you announced that you were marching to Mordor _alone_ , you’d find yourself barely five steps out the door before your army was assembling around you, ready to march into hell itself, with you.”

“I know.” Thranduil answers because they did it before he ever slew a dragon. Oropher had already been gone by then.

“Then don’t be ashamed of your scars or your history. They have made you who you are today and who you are today, is the elf that I love, Dragonslayer.” Thranduil breathes in deeply, the title doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, least not when it is Bard’s voice saying it.

“I love you, too-” Thranduil promises, looking up at his husband and letting a small smile form on his face. “-Dragonslayer.” Bard laughs and shakes his head, but the smile on his face does not go unnoticed.

“Sleep, my Dragonslayer. I will guard your dreams this night.” Bard swears and Thranduil finds himself obeying without a second thought. Bard, as ever, is true to his word.


End file.
